Down the dell
by Tashilover
Summary: He never left. A slender man fic.


**Warning: **Vague descriptions of violence towards children.

()

Douglas knew he'd seen Martin from somewhere. From the very first day he met his captain, the little tingle of familiarity tickled at the back of his head. It was at the tip of his tongue, the edge of his conscious, and always out of reach.

It shouldn't have bothered Douglas as much as it did. He was certain Martin had not wronged him in the past, and yet the feeling persisted. The need to remember felt _important. _Like a phone number to the hospital or which colour wire to cut. It bugged him in all the wrong ways.

Douglas had once asked Martin if they ever crossed paths. Maybe the younger man remembered something.

Martin only shrugged. "No. I'm sure we never met before, Douglas."

"Really?" They worked together for over a year now and the feeling still persisted. "Are you sure?"

"Well... not a hundred percent, no, but does that matter?"

Now it was Douglas' turn to shrug. "I guess not."

So Douglas did his best to ignore the stupid feeling and buried it deep within himself. It probably wasn't important anyways.

()

On the morning of March 16th, Douglas took his sweet time getting up. He took a ludicriously long shower, cooked far too much bacon for his breakfast, and drank his tea at an agonizing slow pace. It wasn't often he allowed himself such a luxury to be lazy as the strict codes of flying required him to be in top shape no matter the time of day. Even when he ate sushi, he always made sure to choose the freshest piece, otherwise he risked food poisoning.

Today though, today was an off day. Today Carolyn booked no flights and promised not to schedual one even if it were for a ridiculous amount of money. For some strange reason, March 16th was more sacred than Christmas, at least to her.

He didn't question why, and frankly he couldn't care less. Why bother looking a gift horse in the mouth? Maybe he'll go out today, pick up a toy for his daughter or take her to the zoo.

With that nice thought bubbling around in his brain, Douglas turned on the television to watch as he digested the half pig he ate.

The food in his stomach turned to lead when the headlines flashed in front of him.

_"Today marks the twentieth anniversary of the St. Martha's Secondary School Massacre."_

Douglas had to put down his mug of tea or risk spilling it. Shit, how could he forget?

A group of tweny-five kids, along with three teachers and two Rangers, had gone into the woods for fun. It was suppose to be a safe trip, the area well known and used by campers and local scout troops. A simple trip of examining animals tracks and collecting exotic bugs.

Thirty-one people went into the woods that day.

Only seven ever came back out.

And only fourteen of the bodies were ever recovered.

Of course Douglas followed the story like mad. He, a newly-wed who looked forward to having a family of his own one day, was now suddenly afraid of the world his kids were to live in. How could a simple five hour trip turn into something like this?

On the television they flashed the photographs of the kids and the adults, retelling the tale in all its gruesome detail.

_"... bodies were found in trash bags, hanging from the low branches of the trees. Despite best efforts from police forces, to this day the bodies of the other ten children have not been recovered."_

Douglas only listened with a half ear. He heard all of this a million times before in the past twenty years. The crazed theories, the horrible accounts from the victims whose stories were not consistant with each other. There were no leads, no strong evidence to go on, no clue of what to do next.

One by one, they flashed the photographs of the children and the one teacher that was found alive. From what Douglas had heard, many of the kids either changed their names or just up and left to avoid the media. A lot of people thought this was a selfish move, that they chose to disappear and not help the police with the investigation. Even the surviving teacher had fallen off the map. Douglas could not blame them.

Still, as the photographs appeared, Douglas couldn't help but wonder what horrors they encountered. What happened in those woods that was so nightmarish nobody dared to repeat it?

The last photgraph appeared and Douglas felt his chest cave in. In the picture the boy was all grins and missing teeth, curly hair and large cheeks. He was only twelve years old here, but Douglas still recognized him.

Martin Crieff, the seventh survivor of the St. Martha Secondary School Massacre.

Suddenly everything made sense. It wasn't Carolyn who wanted this day off. It was _Martin._

Douglas thought his nausea couldn't get any worse. The idea of a child living through such atrocities was sickening enough. Knowing it was Martin, Martin who had to walk back through the forest after witnessing the murders of his classmates was downright horrifying.

Douglas wished he hadn't ate so much.

The news now flashed the small statue the secondary school had erected in the memory of those still missing children.

In Douglas' opinion, it was an ugly statue. It was a single copper tree with a child's footsteps depressed into the ground around the roots. Given many of the childrens' bodies were found hanging from such a tree, the statue seemed ill-will.

On the screen it showed adults and children alike, placing flowers and small written prayers all around the statue. Douglas scanned the crowds, wondering if Martin would suddenly show up somewhere in the background.

The scene ended, cutting back to the news anchors where they both gave their sorrows before switching gears and talking about something less depressing.

()

For the next hour, Douglas debated whether or not he should call Martin. On a day like this, he would probably want to be left alone. Or maybe he was visiting family. Martin has never struck him to be suicidal, Douglas was relieved to say. Still, it would be a good idea just to call him. Make sure he was okay.

His finger pushed the call button before he knew it.

Martin picked up on the third ring. "Hello? Douglas?"

At least he sounded normal. "Hello, Martin. Enjoying your day off?" Douglas internally cringed at his poor choice of words.

"Actually, yes I am," Martin continued, not at all affected. "I'm catching up on some reading."

"That's nice. The reason I called is, uh, I had a lunch date with my daughter today. But she would rather spend the day hanging out with her friends than her dear old dad."

"Oh," Martin said sympathetically. "Well, you know how kids are."

"Yes, and you see, now I have reservations that will go waste and I hate eating by myself. I wonder if you would like to join me."

"Oh! Um... okay, sure. At what time...?"

"Noon. I'll come pick you up."

"Sure! Noon it is."

()

Lunch with Martin was like... lunch with Martin.

Douglas has eaten with Martin plenty of times before, in Gerti, at hotels or in the portacabin. Their conversations were usually the same, never really straying too far into personal details. Occasionally Martin would start talking about aeroplanes and Douglas would have to steer the conversation away or change the topic entirely.

Martin in uniform was the same as Martin out of uniform. Not even on a day like this seemed to change that.

"So," Martin said slyly, looking over the menu. "Are you paying?"

Douglas pretended to look off-put. "I suppose I am."

"You're lucky I am not in the mood for lobster," he grinned. He turned to the waiter and ordered a panini with an iced tea.

Douglas did his best to keep the topics light and normal. The massacre was on the back of his mind for every second, making him believe all his actions were obviously forced. So for the first time in his career, Douglas let Martin talk about aeroplanes.

To say dear old Captain Martin Crieff was knowledgable in aeroplanes was an understatement.

Douglas had to hold up a hand to stop Martin from talking his head off. "Martin, Martin, slow down, you'll talk yourself into a coma. What is it about aeroplanes that you like so much?"

"It's everything, Douglas," Martin nearly squealed. "The precision, the aerodynamics, the idea of just flying! I plan to make a pilgrimage to see the Wright brother's plane in the Air and Space museum."

"Pilgrimage? Really?"

"Don't judge."

"Too late."

They shared a laugh. It was so familiar and so natural, for a second Douglas truely thought he mistook the child on screen for Martin.

An older woman, at least Carolyn's age, chose that moment to walk past their table. She casually looked over Douglas, gave him no heed, but when she noticed Martin, she stopped in her tracks dead cold. "M-Martin?"

Startled, Martin looked up at her. "Mrs. Howle?"

The woman cupped her mouth. Tears sprung to her eyes. "Oh my God," she gasped. "It's been so long."

Martin rose from his seat. This was not an old friend exchange, Douglas could tell. Martin was way too stiff. "Yes it has," he agreed. "How are you?"

"I'm... you know, surviving."

Martin winced. "Yes."

Mrs. Howle quickly glanced at Douglas, then back at Martin. She wiped her eyes. "I see you're busy with company. I won't hold you." She awkwardly patted his arm. "It's, um... it was good to see you again."

"You too."

Martin waited till she was out of sight before he sat down again. By then, all of his good humor has flown out the window. Martin stared down at his cutlery, looking like he just told the Wright brother's plane had been dismantled and burned.

"Martin-"

"That was Mrs. Howle," Martin interrupted him. "She was the mother of one my mates, Gregory. He was one of the few who never came back home."

Douglas sucked in a breath. He suddenly felt like an old fool. "Martin, I... I didn't bring you out to lunch to talk about this. If you don't want to-"

"I know. And thank you for that. All I really had planned for today was avoiding reporters and phone calls."

"Is... is there something you would like to do today? Maybe a trip to Fitton's plane museum?"

That got a little grin out of Martin. "Thanks, but... would you mind driving me to the memorial at the primary school?"

()

By the time they arrived to the little school, the crowd had already dispersed. Flowers and little cards surrounded the copper statue and every time the wind blew, they rattled noisily.

Douglas could barely remember his days at primary school. He had gone to his daughter's a few times to pick her up and the grounds were always filled with parents and kids running around. Douglas didn't like the feel of this empty place.

Martin silently went up to the memorial, taking a moment to brush away a few cigarette buds someone left behind. He traced the little footsteps imprinted in the copper.

Douglas wasn't sure if he should let Martin be or not. "I wished I thought of bringing some flowers," he said quietly, afraid of breaking the calm.

Martin pulled his fingers away. "I don't remember anything," he said, glancing down at the notes. "Not a thing. Not what I had for breakfast, not my time with the group when they were alive, and not for days after I was found."

An ugly feeling was settling into Douglas' chest. A morbid part of him wanted to know this, to know what happened out there in those woods, but knowing it was Martin who suffered those horrors made him feel guilty and sick. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear this. "That's understandable. After such trauma, your young mind probably blanked it out."

Martin turned to him. There was a shameful look on his face, like he was a mere second away from confessing a murder. Despite the wind and the noise of the cellophane flowers rattling, Douglas could still hear his quiet reply. "That's exactly what I wanted the police to believe."

It felt like his lungs curled in on itself. "What?"

"I was a child, Douglas. I didn't know what I saw, I couldn't... explain."

"Christ, Martin, what are you saying? You _know_ who attacked your class? You know who did it?"

Martin nodded.

"Fuck! You need to tell someone!"

"I can't."

"Why? Did they threaten you?"

Martin frowned, his face looking so young, so child-like. He shook his head and said, "It's because _he_ never _left_."

At that moment, silence fell upon Douglas so fast he thought he went deaf. No longer was there background noises of birds, crickets, or traffic in the distance. The world around them was void of sound and all Douglas could hear was the harsh breathing of his own breath.

Martin looked past him, over his shoulder.

"He's here."

Douglas twirled around, his heart thundering in his chest. At first he doesn't see him except for a few trees, a long green field and the very empty car park. Douglas blinked and the world came into focus.

**He** stood by a lamp post, his whole body nearly drowned out by the colours of the background. It didn't help he was as skinny as the post itself, and nearly just as tall.

It's not real, Douglas' mind thought feverishly. The post was at least nine feet tall and this man was only a head or two shorter. His arms were so long, the elbows reached past his hips while his hands dangled only a few inches above the ground.

Douglas tried to focus on his face because a small part of him told him to memorize the features, memorize so he could tell the description of this man to the police. Except no matter how hard he tried, Douglas couldn't. There were no features to memorize, no _face_ to remember. How can he expect Martin to remember when there was _nothing_ there?

"Good God," Douglas whispered, taking a stumbling step back. Martin halted him by gripping his shoulder tightly.

"Don't run," Martin warned. "The others ran and they paid the price for it. I think... I think he likes the chase."

"Martin..." Douglas was gasping, desperate to tear his eyes away. "W-what is that?"

"I don't know," said Martin in a very calm tone. The tall man reached up to the lamp post and touched the bulb, exploding it with his finger. In the far distance, an animal screamed out in terror. "I don't know."


End file.
